


Mask of Poison

by booksnerdharrypotter



Category: Greek Tragedy, Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Sad Ending, basically zeus is an ass, persephone wants revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 14:59:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14263569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksnerdharrypotter/pseuds/booksnerdharrypotter
Summary: Persephone was the Queen of Vengeance and no one could stand in her way.





	Mask of Poison

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this for a writing comp!! enjoy xx

Behind every mask is a face.

It’s a simple concept, really. The perception of a person is as clear as daylight; people see what they wish and that is that. But, they don’t realise, or really care, that all they are seeing is the façade in which the real person is hidden behind. People aren’t always who they lead others to think they are.

Persephone used to love the mask she wore around others, for it was like a rose; sweet, with a wanting to gather it despite its sharp thorns. It was the mask of sunlight that shone upon the flowers and bid them to be gay and exultant.

Now, it is like being caught between who she is, who she wants to be, and who she should be, as the saying goes.

Others thought she was quiet, for children should be seen and not heard, but no. She was an observer, listening in to all the goings on in the poisonous viper den she christened home. Persephone had learnt of things that were thought to be better off leaving behind closed doors.

Her father had done things. Terrible, horrific things.

And Persephone, she who is the harbinger of chaos, and the vengeful face hidden behind the mask of innocent youth, was to make him pay.

\-----

The garden was where everything began.

Spring had arrived and brought with it the soft cooing of birds, those who chirped in desperation of a meal of earthen grubs. The sun washed across the ground, and the daffodils shone golden in its brilliance. Slowly, it melted away the last of the frost coating the grass.

Persephone lay gently upon the budding daisies, her hair swirling around her head like spilled ink in water. The sky at which she stared was unlike the steel blue of a highway, rather, it was the colour of the brightest azure. To her, the blue depths were the canvas on which her eyes painted the clouds in shapes and contours. They were ambitious, moving to cover the seeking rays of the sun that wished to be coaxed from hiding.

Like a bird trapped within the confines of its cage, Persephone’s heart thumped and rattled. Her nerves were trying their very most to best her, wishing for her to turn tail and run. But she could not. Would not.

She dug her fingers into the grass to calm herself like her mother had taught. The dark brown shades of the dirt that discovered its way into the nails of the resolute girl was the same colour as her skin. Unlike her, however, it was not the bronze of a medal that displayed victory, but a deep, settled shade of a chestnut.

As she spent the long minutes waiting for her hushed guest, Persephone observed from the corner of her eye the wild rabbit that bounded across the solid ground, as though a frog with soft, mottled fur.

Thudding footsteps alerted the girl to the presence of another individual. She sat up slowly, almost lazily, and turned to look at the new arrival. It had been many years since she had seen her unobtrusive friend; neither of her parents agreeing that she was virtuous company. Her hair a deep russet like that of an apple, her eyes the profoundest black. The face that had filled out incredibly was scarred from the burns of Night.

Akhlys was a sight for sore eyes.

Standing up, Persephone ran forward on dainty, petite footing and hugged her curvaceous companion. Her friend returned the hug in a timely fashion, pausing but a moment before she sunk herself into the embrace. It showed the former girl how much the two had missed each other, as though an absent limb and an aching hunger in the heart, for Akhlys was not one for physical contact.

“I have truly missed you,” Persephone cried.

Akhlys customarily sombre eyes lit up in a blissful glow, the happiest she would ever be. Her voice was a breath of fresh air to Persephone, a reminder of the young girls who did not understand why their parents wished them separate; who did not know the concept of rebellion and all that it brought. “And I, you, darling.”

Despite the years it had been since the two had seen each other, there was still the loving sense of companionship. She was a friend as true as sound health, it is seldom known until it is lost.

Taking Akhlys’ pale hand in her own, Persephone led her towards the beginnings of the dense woodland, the morning grass chilled and damp on her bare feet. The tussocks trampled in undulations as the two walked, springing back to their original position as the gentle gusts of winds brought them back in vigour.

To be overheard was detrimental to the cause; no doubt any of her half-siblings would tattle as soon as they heard the slightest whisper of discord. There was a constant battle of pride between them all, wishing for the momentary occasion when they would be favoured by their father and a cause of stunned envy.

“I have brought what you wished,” Akhlys whispered, her eyes fluttering around the garden for would-be eavesdroppers. From the bag at her side, its colour that of the deepest, darkest black leather, she pulled a pomegranate wrapped in fine cloth. It was the scarlet of a holly berry as it first blooms in the winter, and the size of a tennis ball, plump and round. “Imbued with hemlock it will eradicate even the strongest of men.”

Persephone was beyond awed at her friend. She, however, was mostly afraid. Her heartbeat was still a bird, running rampant and inconsistently. “Are you sure it will work?”

She almost hoped her friend would say no. She wouldn’t have to persist with her senseless scheme and most likely find herself in an unassuming, dark prison. Or even dead at the hand of one of her most conniving family members.

“Are you doubting my ability?” Akhlys asked, face drawn like tight wires. Her words were laced with incredulity, the scepticism virtually falling from her rosy lips.

In horror of Akhlys’ mood swings, Persephone shook her head with endeavour. “No. I-”

“You are afraid.” It was a statement, no questioning tone behind it.

“Yes.”

The other girl nodded in understanding. “If I did not believe you could follow through, I would not consider you for even a moment as one to be given a dose of one of the deadliest poisons my supply has to offer.”

Persephone basked in the compliment as though the skies were aflame with the richest rays of the sun. Her heart began to slow, as if the bird had taken a rest, with the butterflies in her stomach stopping their persistent flutter.

Akhlys broke the silence that started at her last words, passing the deadly fruit into Persephone’s waiting hand, making sure to only touch the fabric that surrounded the flesh of the fruit. “I should go. You father would tear me to shreds if he discovered I was anywhere near you.”

The pale girl turned to go, but Persephone tugged on her arm gently.

“Akhlys?” she said softly, her eyes glimmering with the love of her friend. “Thank you.”

She nodded her head, and began walking away once more. Her footsteps capricious and heavy in their spiked combat boots, she moved carelessly across the grass that Persephone’s stepmother cared so lovingly for. If only for appearances.

Persephone hugged herself as the wind began to blow in sounder gusts, close to the darkened forest she stood beside. The air was turning frigid, as cold as the cheeks where tears streamed like waterfalls. With a deliberate, measured pace, she ambled towards the richly extravagant confines of the house she lived in. She rubbed the soft skin of the pomegranate with the pad of her thumb to remind herself why she was doing this.

One more beast would be gone from the world, and Persephone would never again have to see this haunting house.

\-----

Everything she did was for the sake of appearances.

Her indolent, languid eyes were lined with kohl, the shade so very like the black of a veil that obscures sight from a blind man, while her lips and cheeks were rouged with red the colour of Hell’s most lethal fires.

Persephone’s pride lashed its tail- as though it was a lion- while she looked toward her seat at the mahogany dining table. The room smelt of the most heavily perfumed roses, sickening and sweet, its musk ingrained into the very essence of the walls. Its ceilings were as high as a cathedral, the tall windows providing light in every ounce of the room.

It was bright. Colourful. Ghastly.

The energy in the room was plausible at best, the collective sense of tension palpable and fraught. Every person in this room was power hungry, their comprehensive schemes a grenade waiting to explode.

They all sat at the table as if they were one jovial dynasty. Persephone strolled methodically towards her seat next to her father, his hair a silvery cap glistening in the sunlight, and her brother Hermes, his startling eyes mischievous. She looked almost nothing like the rest of her family members; her hair falling in thick, black locks, with her eyes the colour of freshly mown grass. To her, it was a comforting thought that she did not appear like her family of sinners.

“Persephone,” Zeus called warmly. “It would not be tempting fate tio ask if you are enthused for the masquerade tomorrow night?”

Her jaw clicked, and her vision filled with leaping flames of anger. He acted so robustly conventional. “Of course, Papa.” She said as sweet as spring’s first song. “I would not miss your party for naught.”

She had learnt how to be a thorn in the nest of vipers. It was the only route of survival.

Hermes leant over from his seat and whispered into her ear, “You wouldn’t be planning anything, my loving sister?”

Persephone sat astounded, before she regained her composure. Her fingernails dug into the delicate skin of her hands, endeavouring to preserve the calm and not allow the storm to surface and succeed. Blood was drawn, like a stampeding waterfall down the creased lines of her soft skin. “Never, dearest brother.”

“I can hear the lies spewing from your tongue like a jaded vixen.” A smirk graced his arching features.

The wall across from her was being decorated by housekeepers for the event, the glistening celebratory carvings engraved with distended words. It was here Persephone’s attention was kept, better seen as haughty than suspect.

“I would not lie, it is beneath me.”

Hermes, the devil in a small yet handsome form, continued to smirk. “The blood pooling in your hands suggests otherwise.”

Persephone had been bested, but in her steely resolve, she refused to break. She carefully wiped away the excess blood staining her hands on a napkin and hid it beneath the tousles of her flowery dress. “Nothing is of your concern.”

Smirking, Hermes turned back before eating the rest of the food that lay on his plate. Persephone methodically picked up the cutlery that shone as silvery as the moon’s song, and ate the unassuming fruit that lay in front of her.

This was her life and she loathed every predictable aspect. Persephone’s days were clockwork and unassuming; like paint drying as the essence of boredom and lack of originality. It would all end tomorrow night, for one way or another.

The laughter on Persephone’s face was perfunctory; she learnt the painstaking art of how to be an eccedentesiast. Everything about her family was hidden behind simpering smiles and insincere compliments.

It would not be unfortunate for everything to be brought to turmoil in the midst of the Hunter’s moon.

\-----

The tears were tickling her cheeks, bleeding the salt from her very soul.

Persephone’s lips trembled as she fell to her knees in a dishevelled heap to the floor below. The grief was consuming her, dousing the frenzied fires that were raging within. She was like a summer storm, violent and ferocious.

She had had enough.

Her family, as they called themselves, were a malicious, callous people. They made every opportunity to wrench her heart and soul into negligible sized fragments, not a care for her already fragile state of mind. They caused her to feel as if she was trudging into the shadows, sensing her way slowly as they continued their torment. Cruel and wretched unlike any others.

Persephone glowered bleakly at her pastel walls, endeavouring to drive down the gut-wrenching feelings of despair. She could not allow them to distract her from the task she was to undertake tomorrow, it necessitated full concentration. But for the moment, she would allow herself to weep at what could have been.

Sobs wracked her body in agonising tremors, their loathsome words were a landmine of despair. Its arms were the darkness of murderers and thieves, wrapping around her body as though to pilfer any bliss that resided within. Her mind and body were being numbed by the aches.

The pain was an animal. Every time Persephone leapt forward to fight the grief, its claws abraded and impaled; its eyes gazed into her soul as it continued to devour her being.

Persephone lifted her head. She caught sight of the poisoned pomegranate, red as the sunset in ire, as deep as the colour of the blood that travelled in a man’s wounded heart. Picking it up slowly, she traced her delicate fingers over the grains of its surface. It acted as a reminder of what she was to do- _why_ she was to do this.

No more should her father be allowed to live. He took advantage of others without thought nor care for the consequences. He was a cuckoo bird, taking opportune moments at his discretion, but only for the benefit of himself. Zeus was a behemoth.

But, as Persephone sat there, she continued to hear the words of her family; the things they screamed at her in unrelenting rage.

Vixen.

Termagant.

Spitfire.

Hellcat.

Ersatz.

They meant every word they called her; that she was an imposter. Born of one of Zeus’ many philandering and unfaithful escapades. Everything was said without the watchful guise of her father’s eye, for he would have their heads if any of their unforgiving words whispered their way into his ears.

And so, instead, Persephone hid away how their verses made her feel. She allowed herself the passing time to have the sobs wrench themselves free of her petite frame; she allowed the burning tears to slither gently down her face. Her agony was immense.

Persephone thought of her father and how he was the foremost reason for her to be suffering the pain that sought to wreck her very soul. She had loved him once, but now she would be the cause of his death.

Her sorrow was interrupted by the thoughts that belonged to the train of her mind. She could not allow these words to hurt her anymore. She would not allow it to consume her any further. And so, Persephone, daughter of the earth and queen of mortality, wiped away her tears and stood in the thirst of vengeance.

\-----

The process of dressing up was as simple as a dowve on the breadth of summer’s air.

Vain as she was, Persephone only spared herself the briefest of glances in the mirror to assess whether she was fitting for the part of the innocent, naïve girl everyone took her to be. The silky pale pink and purple dress swirled together to hug her curves, the gold detailing contrasting the colour of her skin. The glimmering headpiece hugged her temples, their two arms meeting behind at full circle. Her mask was a picturesque piece of flowers in the palest of pink.

As soon as the poisoning- the deed as terrifying as the monologue of a hurricane- was completed, Persephone would run. Her thin clothing was to provide both the appearance of an innocuous hellcat and the ease of running without hassle.

The pomegranate was to stay buried until needed.

She sighed despairingly at the mess that would be this evening, but as her name was to signify, she was to be the axe of justice. Her father would not know- nor understand- what was to become of him.

At the sight of the time that ticked away on the grand clock, Persephone took hold of the flowing skirts and absconded the comfort of her bedroom.

Twirling within the shining air was the resonance of chinking glasses and the thrum of classical music. It echoed off every detailed wall, so the whole house would be filled with sounds of the party. There were fairy lights strung upon the ramparts, setting the atmosphere to mysterious and clandestine. Their globes were coruscating and opalescent, pulsating to the beat of the music.

Persephone trailed leisurely down the grand staircase, taking hold of the mahogany balustrade for balance. She was as graceful as a bird as it departs in the newborn spring, as gracious as the waving boughs in the morn. Her dress took flight in eddying swirls like the bubbles on the moving current.

The partygoers stared up at the sight of the walking flower. Persephone could hear the thoughts that drove the trains of their devious minds; naïve. Shallow. Trifling. Simple. Trivial. Unpretentious.

The perfect act of the soon-to-be murderer.

As she took a heavy breath, Persephone finished her deliberately relaxed descent. Her Cheshire face was adorned by the smile of the blossoms in shade of the gleaming sun. A look at the guests revealed her father standing surrounded by his conniving companions, his looming importance illuminating who was hidden behind the mask of gold. Beside him stood Hera in her petulant glory, peacock feathers encircling her sharp eyes. She shot Persephone a look conveying her superciliousness and disdain as she took sight of the flowering girl. A doting stepmother in all her amorous splendour.

“Daughter,” Zeus said opportunely, “Wonderful of you to provide us with your presence.”

Persephone gave a small curtsy, swallowing her pride at the sight of his utterly despicable face. “Father.”

She was nervous tonight, afraid of her own shadow. If anyone were to discover the harrowing deception planted like a seed within the depths of her mind, finished she would be.

“Join me for a dance, my dearest?” Zeus asked expectantly, holding out his hand in wait.

No. She wouldn’t say yes, and she wouldn’t touch his hands stained with the vilification of others, men and women. But, Persephone smiled demurely, “Yes, Papa. I would be honoured.”

Zeus took her tanned hand in his own manicured, olive skinned fingers. He led her towards the dancing floor that was bare of movement from the opulent guests. Gently, he spun Persephone around like the weathered leaf falling from its tree perch, her skirts twirling in high extent.

Persephone despised this with the utmost ardour. Her father was a terrible, no-good man, and here she was, dancing with him like a simpering princess. It was despicable in every aspect; she hated herself for it.

The music eddied through the grand hall, and the two, father and daughter, continued to dance in time with the classical beat. Its words sung of concealed fervour and passion, of a lover taking his first wife. How ironic in which this song was chosen for her father to gambol about as if he wasn’t a monster. As if it was Fate decreed.

Persephone exhaled contentedly as the words began to fade into something more upbeat, its harmonies not to be moved to in the languid weaving of father and daughter.

“Thank you, Father,” she said, hiding her contempt behind pretty words. “You are a song sung of sunlight and the breath of the wind.”

“And you know how to make any man blush in the colour crimson,” Zeus replied. She could tell he was pleased with her compliment, warming up to her amiable dicta. “I will take my due leave with those gratifying words.”

“Enjoy yourself, Papa.”

He nodded at Persephone’s words, smiling all the way. How arrogant he was of himself, like the tallest tree that blossomed no fruit. She was waiting for the time when she would depart, taking her own leave from this banal life that she lived; day in, day out.

Tired, Persephone made her way to the heavily decorated, plum coloured tables where the refreshments of the evening lay. Her attention was caught upon the sight of the roseate drink in the curving glass bowl, its very essence seeming to call her name. Beside the drink lay crystal champagne glasses, the perfect attribute to the pristine beverage.

She moved unhurriedly so as to not spill any of the smooth drink on herself, pouring it ever so carefully into one of the glasses. Persephone took a sip, the refreshing liquid cascading down her throat without a hitch.

“Is it any good?” asked a hoarse voice from behind her, their tongue as raspy as a smoker’s lung. Persephone turned to spy a dark-haired man standing behind her, his skin was as pale as the plague that promised quick death. She smiled at him melodiously.

“Is _what_ any good?” she replied succinctly. Her voice couldn’t have been any more different from his own sandpaper tone; hers spoke of spring days, and the flowers that bloomed under the sunlight.

The stranger smirked, not the foolish face of praise, but a true smile of harrowing bliss. He seemed to almost enjoy her question. “The beverage in your hand, of course. Is it worth having some?”

Persephone gazed down at the glass she held, before turning her smooth face back to the stranger settled before her. “It sings of summer months spent laying in the daisy gardens, its fruity taste unlike any other,” she said. “Would you like to try a sip? It may not be to your partiality.”

“Yes, I think I shall.” He took the glass from her hand, lingering a slight moment at the touch of her skin. Before he tasted the drink, he lifted it to his nose and smelt the contents within. “It smells of grapes; of rain falling on a warm day.”

The man brought the drink to his mouth, and took a small sip from the crystal goblet. It left a ruby-red stain on his insipid lips, the only colour only his otherwise pallid figure. His face spoiled as he tasted the beverage. “This tastes-”

“You aren’t fond of it, are you?” Persephone asked as she giggled at the amusing sight.

“It tastes absolutely horrible. Almost as terrible as the screams of the dying and the dead.”

She looked at him, tilting her head at his words. “What an interesting concept,” she said bemusedly. “You have a way with words.”

He began to laugh, even deeper and raspier than the way his voice sounded.  There was something almost boisterous in his tone, as if he had not perceived something so comical in such a prolonged period of time. His face was alight with the wholesome sun, as bright as its dawning rays.

“And why do you laugh like so?” Persephone inquired, curious at his proclamation.

“You call me grandiloquent, however, I have yet to hear a person as silver-tongued as you, my dear. It is pleasing to hear able words fall from such a pretty mouth.”

It was Persephone’s turn to laugh. She let out the most gracious of titters, one that was seen to be pleasing for a lady of such stature. Another thing in which would no longer be a vexing exploit after she was to run tonight- the high standards of social construct in such a simpering place. “My, my, good sir. Now it is you who is the magniloquent smooth-talker.” She would have to have the last hurrah. “Please, what may I call someone as flattering as yourself?”

He paused for a moment, as if to think. “I daresay you can call me anything as it pleases you. But, if you were to insist, you may bid me Pluto.”

Persephone knew that it was not who he truly was, hiding himself under the pretense of such a masquerade. Her time was wasting as she talked to the man, whom indeed was mysterious yet beautiful, but she did not mind. Pluto, as he called himself, was a needed distraction from the pitfalls of her warring mind of the coming evening.

“Well then, my dear Mr Pluto. I bid you to call me Kore.” It was the nickname by which her mother had called her when she was young, and it meant everything that she would even think to give it away to a stranger like so. The look he sent her way conveyed that like her, he too knew that this was not her real name.

Pluto smiled softly. “Kore, how interesting. Meaning ‘little girl’, I presume?”

With a succinct nod of her delicate head, he continued to speak. “Well, Lady Kore. Dare I ask you for a dance?”                                                                           

Persephone should say no- should’ve said no- but the way he asked made him seem so eager about the prospect, as much as the waves that bounced across the azure sea. His eyes lightened, and a dashing smile crossed his lips, showing the essence of his very soul. It warmed up her insides. She allowed a grin to cross her face, letting herself be exultant at his own happiness.

“I daresay you can ask me so.”

As Pluto took her small hand in his own, she set down her roseate beverage, its dregs still in the crystal glass, upon the plum table. He led Persephone to the opalescent dance floor, and she smiled demurely once more at his apparent eagerness; it was though he was a young child on Christmas morning opening his many gifts.

He lay one hand on her shoulder blade and she around his upper arm, gently clasping their other fingers together. The music was slow and classical, reverberating through their very bones. And as suddenly as the tempo quickened, the two began to dance.

Their bodies rose and fell in time with the other. Pluto stepped forward, leading Persephone backward, their forms pressing together as they moved gracefully across the dancing floor. They mirrored one another perfectly and in sync, dancing as if they were phantoms on the wind. Persephone’s body was swaying softly with the beat of the melody, as she forgot all of her afflictions and reservations for the evening.

Pluto was a sensational danseur; his footsteps were the waves of the sea, fluid and tender. Her skirts swirled around her feet like pooling clouds. He spun her suddenly, twirling and turning her underneath his arm, until her back lay against his muscled chest. They paused, their breath rising and falling in rapid succession, taking this moment for recess.

Together they were a raging inferno.

Persephone was swirled once more by Pluto, until his hands were rested upon her waist, and hers linked behind his neck. They were spinning in grand arcs. Guests were watching, eyeing the two as their feet moved without burden. Neither of them cared for the other people, instead, they danced and danced the minutes away in their own intimate bubble.

She was out of breath, the back of her neck a lake of pooling sweat. She smiled up at the mysterious man who had caused her a momentary sense of bliss. He looked down, his eyes glistening like the noonday sun, his smile lighting his pallid face.

“That was-” started Persephone, her tone laced with awe.

Pluto was breathless too, his heartbeat ragged as though a wheezing hound. “Astonishing,” he said. “You, my Lady Kore, are a tremendous dancer.”

“I have nothing on you, good sir.” She beamed once more, still staggering for her lost inhalation. “You are the sun, dancing upon the cobalt waves of the sea.”

“As eloquent and radiant as ever, my dear.”

The two continued to sway together leisurely in time with slowing tempo of the music. Persephone could feel his eyes watching her every move, staring deep into her soul.

Abruptly, she was wrenched away by the grasping and deceitful hands of Hermes, his hair curly and unabashed for the evening. He leered unconventionally at Pluto, his eyes the warring pits of malice and hate. Persephone protested wearily, her words fighting a war they were not to win. Her brother harshly placed his pale finger on her rosy lips, quieting her voice.

She shoved away his hand. “Hermes, do not tempt me to rip your head from your neck,” she growled. Her tone was thorns on a rosebush, contempt falling from her mouth.

“Dearest sister, may I have the next dance?” Hermes asked, pulling roughly on her upper arm to tear her away from Pluto.

“No, you may not-”

Her brother cut off her words, slowly continuing to drag her towards the other end of the dance floor. Persephone turned to the mourning Pluto, mouthing, _“I’m sorry”_ in her wake. Without a break in step, she tore Hermes’ iron grip from her arm.

“I can walk myself, you know,” she said, completely matter of fact. “And it is wholly unwarranted to steal away a girl when she is dancing with another.”

They paused their strolling gait, and Hermes placed her hands around his neck. He swayed in tempo with the upbeat, yet classical music, and she followed his movement. The two stayed that way for a moment, a honey bee and spider dancing upon the moonlight. Uncanny.

Hermes sighed dejectedly, staring into his sister’s eyes. “Father was watching. You know what he is like sharing his things with others.”

“His _things_?” Persephone cried, outraged. “I am his daughter, not his subject. He does not own me.”

The sounds of the bumbling guests passed around the two without notice or care. Their resentment for each other was palpable, the irritation rolling off them like waves of fury.

“I am striving to assist you, dearest sister. You’ve gotten yourself unceremoniously distracted. And by him, no less.”

Persephone ignored Hermes’ words that were stabbing daggers at Pluto. “Distracted? Whatever do you mean?”

Her brother stared blankly at her, glowering like the Gorgon’s repulsive head. He seemed to pause a moment, waiting for her thoughts to make the colossal connection. The only thing on her mind, other than Pluto and his dashing smile, was the reminder of her task of the evening. Her father was a burden that must needs disposing of.

Hermes could not know about any of that. It meant that her plans would go amiss and the living fiend would remain to breathe upon the earth.

“How do you know?” Persephone asked sharply. She was apprehensive, like the tempest driven toad hidden from his predators.

Her brother laughed softly, continuing to sway her with him to the music. “I listened to the words of the bluebirds as they fluttered upon their fragile wings.”

“Be serious, brother.” Persephone scowled at him tersely, not caring for his words.

“I overheard you and Akhlys in the garden.” She was horrified, and Hermes laughed once more at her despair. “Do not worry, I have not run to Father and tattled your harrowing schemes. I wish to help you.”

It was Persephone’s turn for titillation, giggling softly. “ _Help_ me? When have you ever helped me, brother?”

Hermes snarled. “If you must know, I want _him_ alive and breathing less than you, sister.” His tone was malice, voice dripping with untold hatred. “Let us end our Father’s life.”

And so, all thoughts of Pluto were wiped from Persephone’s mind, her notions of the handsome man as clear from her psyche as the spring air.

Zeus was to perish.

\-----

The pomegranate was a death sentence in plump, fruit form.

Persephone had let go of her brother’s smooth hands, sauntering towards the grand staircase. She trailed up the breadth of the stairs, driving down her judgements of unease and discontent.

Her heart was thumping with the fluttering of the diminutive bird once more, and she was surprised that she could not hear its distinctive thuds echo in her ears. Her legs were shaking and trembling in her wake as she tried to act collected in front of all the guests. They stared- intrigued- as she ambled, wishing to know her intentions for their own conniving purposes.

With a hasty look, Persephone strode prudently to the depths of her vivid bedroom, scrutinising with a vigilant eye for those who may be observing upon her. She threw open the door, hurriedly making sure that it did not slam against the wall behind it. It would not do to have the housekeepers looking for the source of the clamour.

Picking up her skirts, she dove to her knees in front of her grand bed. Persephone rapidly raised the silk sheets away from the mahogany frame and desperately searched for the box that was hidden, so alike with the workings of a watch concealed beneath the ticking hands. There it lay, its outside not detailed and unadorned; unsuspecting.

She pulled the box toward her, opening its brim to the poisonous contents secreted within. The pomegranate appeared as mundane as any other fruit. It sat within a coverlet of cloth, and she picked it up, covering and all, to protect her hands from the poison. Persephone placed it carefully and with short pause on the bed; its presence a blood-red blot in the pastel landscape.

She tugged on the crystal bell that was sequestered beside her bedside table, ringing for a housekeeper. In an apt fashion, a young girl arrived, wearing the crest and insignia of the family’s name.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of, Miss Persephone?” asked the girl, gazing downward at the flooring instead of into her eyes.

Persephone replied, “I need a pomegranate, a knife and two bowls. Also, two spoons. And be quick about it too, please.” She wasn’t going to waste time dallying and chattering with the hired help. The girl bowed her head tenderly, and curved to depart the room. She strode with quick, lithe steps, scarcely making a sound as she went.

Sitting down upon the bedspread, Persephone awaited. Her heart sustained its melodious beat within her chest, hammering in swift succession as though thunder before a lightning storm. She dug her nails into the soft flesh of her palms, causing deep indents within the skin, their colour as blue as the lips of death. Not enough stress was forced to allow ruby-red blood to flow freely.

The girl returned as swift as she had absconded, hands laden with Persephone’s requests. She took them from the housekeeper, laying them carefully on the bed beside the burdened fruit that already lay there.

“Thank you,” Persephone said to the girl. Her voice turned from mellow sunshine, to the whisper of snakes. Queen of vengeance once more. “But, I ask that you do not tell anyone of this, for I will not hesitate in ripping your throat out.”

The housekeeper stood in soundless disarray, her mouth opening in muted distress. “Yes, of course… I-” She nodded her head and fled from the room, turning tail as hasty as a hellcat.

Persephone sighed softly, disappointed at her crass. It would not do, however, for the girl to hurry to Zeus to tattle for favour. Any sign of chary rigour and her schemes would plummet to the ashes of Troy. She would not allow for every conceived and calculated plan to fall to shreds, for they had spent too long in the making.

Too long had her father been an infidel to his family.

“Have you ever heard of not shooting the messenger?” an impish, yet gruff voice asked, hovering in the doorway.

Persephone growled at the entrance of her room, exasperation intended at her ill-conceived family member. “And dearest brother, have you ever heard of knocking?” 

Hermes thumped on the door, his hand hammering rapidly. He muttered, “Honey, I’m home,” and sauntered into the room disconsolate. With a sigh of breath, he collapsed drearily onto the cushioned chair, its padding as soft as the silver breeze across the blossoming flowers. His head rested monotonously across the pillows, closing his eyes for tedious respite.

“What do you want, my most humble _bruvver_?” questioned Persephone, her voice the song of cynicism.

He lifted his eyelids sluggishly and with pause, glowering vacuously at her. His eyes spoke of a ticking time bomb and the mischievous ploy of a pixie, full of fire and ice. “I am here to see that you are ensuing the errand. As well as that you are not offing all of the housekeepers in our service, most _precious_ of younger sisters.”

“Need I remind you that this was all of my own fabrication?” Persephone said, a simpering smile shadowing her petite face. “You are only here since you were prying on my companion and I while we were partaking in a clandestine tête-à-tête. Do not feign that you are here for any intention other than to survey myself as I devastate my own life- and everything I have ever known- by murdering our Father.”

Hermes fell taciturn, not articulating any comments of the unnecessary sort. He observed Persephone as she wrenched on a pair of her most luxurious gloves, as a mockery to her kin and their superfluity, and began slicing the pomegranate acquired by the timid housekeeper. She carved the crimson fruit into halves, thus using the apex of the silvery blade to divulge it of its ruby seeds. They slowly trickled into the bowl held beneath, staining the sides a roseate colour.

The skin of the pomegranate was heaved into the rampant fireplace by Persephone, and she placed the bowl away from her. Her apprehension about the subsequent task intensified, hoping that naught would be erroneous as she began slicing into the poisonous bounty, keeping it over the other bowl. She carefully held the fruit away from her, so as to not spill any of the noxious juices on her body, for if she happened to ingest any of the pomegranate, she would perish agonisingly.

Her mind turned to thoughts of Pluto and his considerate words, of his dancing and his smile that glowed in the morning sun. He would be wondering about where she went; why Hermes had stolen her away as easily as other people breathe. She had enjoyed his company diligently, but leaving things would be better for the long run; for if she was to run, he would not be able to come with. He could only slow her down.

“Hello?” Hermes muttered quietly, “You still in there? It is essential that we hasten this up.”

Persephone glared at him, sending daggers with her eyes. She turned back towards the pomegranate and ladled the last of the seeds into the pearly white bowl. The colour wasn’t any dissimilar from the original, if anything, the stones were only a shade of crimson darker.

The poisonous skin was thrown like the other, landing in the inferno of the golden flames. She also dropped the silver knife in the fire as well, in an attempt to melt away any evidence of her convictions. With a sigh, Persephone cradled both of the bowls, the lethal one held within her left hand, the other in her right.

Through an incisive glance, she had Hermes place one spoon in each of the dishes. He brought them over lethargically and irked, not wanting to do anything of the sort.

She was tired of the fight, exhausted by the thought of actually murdering someone. She was a bird who could fly no longer. But, she would follow. Persephone would overcome her burdens if it meant that her father, the beast unlike any other, the maltreater of men and women, would perish.

“Why are you so wanting of Father being dead?” Hermes asked. He was curious, his eyes fluttering in haste.

Persephone beheld him. She thought and thought, her mind whirring like the cogs of a clockwork figure. A grim determination settled over her face as she matured on the reason. “Truly? He takes advantage of men and women, and due to him being the golden boy, no one dares to batter an eyelid. Those girls and boys go home violated and are blamed for what they wear, for letting themselves get close to someone. He’s the one at fault, not them. It’s so wrong.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “And yourself?”

“Like you said,” he muttered, “he’s a monster.”

She looked at her brother, recognising that she was not going to be getting anything else out of him on the matter. He was tied up in his feelings as though a dog detained on a leash, endeavouring for escape but never succeeding.

“I’ll be going,” Persephone said, walking towards the door. She hesitated brusquely, turning to look at her brother for what was perhaps the last time in a very long while. She was almost melancholy. “Farewell, beloved brother of mine.”

Hermes stared at her, really gazing at her, deep into her eyes. He too, looked almost woeful. “Goodbye, Persephone,” he said desolate. “I wish you well.”

And as she strode out of the room, skirts swaying around her ankles like a field as the wind blows over, Persephone realised that her brother had called her by her true name, like he had sincerely acknowledged her. Like he had supposed that it was the last time the two would ever see each other. A genuine parting.

\-----

The celebration down below was still full of the shrewd cobras, laughing and dancing without woe.

Persephone did not make a grand entrance as she had when first arriving at the congregation. Rather, she entered through a rear foyer, not desiring many to notice her return. She hid in the shadows as people passed, willing them to disregard her presence at all costs. Her hands were shaking, quivering as though a withered leaf caught in a hurricane.

She was absolutely and wholly afraid.

Her father was still crowded around by several of the guests, his face sweating in the inflamed heat of the room. Hera, as courteous and loyal as ever, lingered by his side, her footsteps dogging his own.  They were the fanfare of the celebration, feared and envied by invitees alike. Persephone hated the sight of both of them, not realising of all the erroneous conducts they committed in the world. Zeus in particular.

With a glimmering shake of the head, she walked forth from her hiding place. She smiled at all those she passed, acting as jejune as they believed her to be. Her face was simpering, innocent, with no sight of the fear that gnawed at her insides, waiting for the trigger that would paralyse her. She would not allow it to happen.

Persephone walked poised, like a beauty in the starry night sky. Her steps were proud, defiant, as she continued on her treacherous path. She held no remorse for what she was to do.

Zeus regarded her as she arrived at his flank, beaming as only a man who owned everything could. He reached out a hand and traced her cheek with the knuckle of his index finger. It was a reminder to all those present; she was his, his _possession_. The thought disgusted her. She belonged only to herself.

“Father,” she murmured, curtseying slightly; prudently holding the pearly bowls within her hands to not spill any of the contents. “I have brought you a gift. I know you enjoy pomegranate as much as I.”

He leered, his eyes sparkling. “How kind of you, my daughter. ‘Tis just what I needed as a refreshment for the evening.”

Persephone knew he would not share any of the fruit with anyone, including Hera; he did not adore her as much as many others supposed. Attempting to hold back the shaking, she brought forward her left hand, passing him the bowl. The crimson seeds within were unassuming, for there was no trace of the devil’s flower that poisoned them. Persephone’s heart was racing, and she prayed that her father could not hear the inconsistent beats that shuddered their way through her chest. Her hands were sweating, a thin layer of perspiration coating the skin.

The bowl passed cleanly into Zeus’ hands, his strong fingers holding it as easily as one counts the petals on a blooming flower. Persephone sighed, albeit quietly, calming herself. In essence, her duty was fundamentally completed. Once he began to eat the poisoned fruit, everything would fall into place.

The world would be free of another monster. No more would his poisonous steps litter the earth, bringing sorrow to every path he walked.

“Enjoy, Father,” she said demurely, smiling like the veiled viper that she was. Persephone observed blissfully and resolutely as Zeus, who had unquestionably no awareness of what was going to transpire, raised a spoonful of the deadly pomegranate seeds into his mouth and ate them without pause.

The poison within the fruit would not take effect for an hour; his muscles and nerves would seize, and his body would go into to paralysis. And then, his lungs and heart would fail, resulting in almost immediate death.

Persephone took a spoonful of her own pomegranate, its colour dyeing her lips a vivid, rosy red. She would keep the façade of the guileless, unassuming maiden she had learnt to perfect over time, appearing as if nothing was out of the ordinary. With a glance around the gathered guests, she ogled longingly for Pluto, if only to have one more exchange with him before she ran. He was nowhere to be seen, and her heart fluttered sadly. It was as though Eros and Aphrodite were kindling the fire within her soul, playing with her affections.

She sauntered noiselessly over to a nearby table as she ladled another serving of the crimson fruit into her mouth, its juices running over her lips. She placed the bowl down carefully on the plum counter; it was out of place but she did not care.

For the better part of the next hour, Persephone spoke and gambolled with the guests who asked, many of them suitors. She did not care for them one bit, but for the sake of appearances, her kohl lined eyes shone happily, her rosy lips smiling in laughter. Not one of them seemed to notice that she was throwing up a sharp façade, concealing all of her meticulous and malice thoughts.

A reprieve came in the form of her father settled on the risen dais, Hera situated ever tersely by his side. Persephone stood with everyone else, secreted towards the front so as to dash towards her father as the innocuous hellcat she was, when the time permitted. Zeus began to speak, his deep voice loud and booming. He could be heard in every crevice and corner of the magnificently colossal room.

“Good evening, honoured guests and esteemed friends,” he commenced, his speech filled with feigned cheerfulness and inclination.  “I am taking this moment to acknowledge-”

Zeus broke off, his hand going to his shuddering heart. Daintily, Persephone watched as her father trembled in palpable anguish, sweat building on his brow. He spoke once more, his voice slow and sluggish. “I apologise-”

He retched, any food that was in his system dribbling over his lips in a coarse stream. His body fell forward, and Hera only caught him just before he hit the concrete ground below, screaming in terror. He was deteriorating like the snow that drifted from the Heavens to the Hells of below.

Persephone ran forward without hiatus, her siblings subsequently following her footsteps. Charily, she took Zeus’ warm, vilified hand within her own, holding it lovingly as any daughter would. She could feel his pulse hammering, his body working overtime to exude the poison from  within his system. He still had bile rushing from his mouth, storming quickly as though it was open-mouthed like a crow aching for sustenance.

The once exultant room was filled with the sounds of astonishment and distress, the guests relocating either closer to examine the spectacle, or rushing around for assistance. The music had been turned off, its slow and upbeat melodies no longer twinkling away with the sounds of chinking glasses and raucous laughter.

Without preamble, Persephone bowed her head down to her father’s face, her breath tickling his ear, much the same as the symphony of grass that stroked the bottom of your feet. She knew that he would no longer be able to speak coherent thoughts, the poison having gone too far in his system. Her next words were cruel and unforgiving, filled with the frenzied fire of one who was consumed by vengeance.

“I hope you die a most painful death, dearest Father.”

His eyes widened ever so slowly, his mouth moving rapidly, with no words spilling forth. Persephone’s heart thumped, her hands twitching. She would have to race out of here before anyone comprehended that she was the culprit; for they would understand soon enough.

\-----

The shadows were welcoming, their colour dark as though the shade of pooling ink.

Persephone hiked her skirts up to her thighs, the voluminous material easy to manipulate at will. She stepped carefully around the mess of bile and blood, her face a deceptive mask of horror and grief.

“I must go forth and call for some medical assistance,” she called, her voice laced with melancholy and desolation. Faked tears leaked from her mossy eyes, smudging the inked kohl in gloomy tracks down her soft cheeks.

Cautiously, she ambled backwards from the dais until she crashed into the rear wall, the place where she could hide in the murky shadows. She stole across the darkness without pause, aching to be away from the mess that was her father’s death. Her breath was inconsistent and rapid, her heart pulsing briskly.

No one was near the glass doors that lead to the patio out the rear of the house. With a suspicious eye, Persephone looked for anyone who may be observing and tracking her odd movements. The only person who gazed at her was Hermes, who gave a sharp nod of his head in sympathy as they locked eyes. With a grim smile, she stepped through the doors and into the frigid air outside.

It was bitter at that time of the evening, the soft breeze calling goosebumps forth from her skin. The only light was that which bled forth from the room she had just absconded. She waited a moment until her eyes adjusted to the darkness, her gaze heavy.

As she observed, Persephone noticed the figure sitting upon the earthen ground, their form shrouded in shadow. She stared resolutely, her mouth opening in disbelief as she recognised the shape of his body, the contour of his muscled arms.

Pluto.

He was sedentary upon the grass, his limbs disconsolate and sat without care. The finished product of a flower crown was held in his hands, the blooming blossoms having been wrenched from the dirt beside him. She stepped towards him; maybe just one more moment wouldn’t hurt.

“As someone who grew up on the wings of a bird and slept within the nettles of trees,” Persephone began, her voice laced with soft laughter, “seeing you so carelessly rip flowers from the earth is near blasphemy.”

Pluto was quiet for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “I made it for you, actually. The blush reminded me of your roseate lips.”

She convened carefully beside him, beholding him with a watchful gaze, peeling away his very soul with her stare. His head turned to face hers, alighting in shock as he perceived the black colour of death tracing winding tracks down her cheeks.

“What happened?” whispered Pluto, taking her petite shoulders in his hands. “Are you okay?”

Persephone laughed shakily, her tone laced with cynicism. “I believe so; I mean, if murdering your father in front of numerous guests is called ‘okay.’” Her eyes flashed. “None of them knows it was me though, who killed Zeus, but they shall comprehend it soon enough.”

“I can’t say I’m sorry that he’s perished,” Pluto replied. He sat almost shell-shocked, tracing circles within the skin of her shoulders. With a pause, he really looked at her, his gaze as deep as the void of the unknown. “Who are you really?” asked he, his voice tremoring slightly.

“My name,” she whispered, “is Persephone.”

“A beautiful name for a wonderful woman,” he said, his mouth parting as he thought. “Truly, I am Hades.”

It was fitting, Persephone supposed, that he was Hades. The man concealed within the shadows could be no other than the voice of nightmares. He was not as others believed; his heart was the kindest she had known.

“Here, take this.” Hades tried handing her the flower crown, its petals soft beneath her touch. The wind rippled across their leaves.

“I cannot. I wish you to keep it as an aide-mémoire of the girl who was not who she led others to believe.” Persephone gazed forward into the night. “I am sorry, dearest Hades, but I must take my due leave.”

Her heart fractured at the sight of his torn face, the shades that lined his cheeks. Without preamble, she linked her tanned fingers though his pale ones, staring deep into his shadowed eyes.

Persephone brushed her lips against Hades’, staining their fair colour with the scarlet of pomegranate juice that tinged her own. “Remember me,” she whispered, the words as soft and quiet as the breeze on a summer day.

She was the girl with the face of a blooming spring flower, and she was the woman with the heart of poison; she was the daughter of the earth and she was the queen of vengeance. She would shed her mask and hide within the furthest reaches of the earth, racing her family before they found her. And when they did, she would be prepared.

And so, as gracefully as the curving arch of a rainbow, Persephone ran.

  



End file.
